


Our best made plans all laid to waste (but we're still standing here)

by SatanInACroptop



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas fic, College Student Stiles, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Good Peter, M/M, Steter Secret Santa, Tooth Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatanInACroptop/pseuds/SatanInACroptop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's perfectly planned date for Christmas Eve with Stiles gets waylaid by long work hours and the hazards of mother nature. </p><p>He improvises. </p><p>AKA my Steter Secret Santa 2k14 fic for the amazing cocoslash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our best made plans all laid to waste (but we're still standing here)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cocoslash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoslash/gifts).



> This fic has only been betaed my me. So yes, there are probably numerous typos and other awful grammatical errors. And I'm truly horrendously sorry for them. It's been a long week. Please forgive me.

There was wet snow coming down in cotton balls. Slush sank into the holes of Stile's high-tops in the few feet it took to shuffle from the entrance of the teacher's hall to his battered down Jeep.

It was nearly nine o'clock on Christmas Eve when Dr. Jones, the professor he had foolishly agreed to TA for in attempt to gain both extra cash for his ungodly expensive textbooks and student credit (as well as a nice blurb on his one-day to exist resume), had finally decided to call it a night. The professor was, for whatever reason Stiles could never understand, obsessed with getting his final essays and examinations done before the New Year. Even though grades weren't do till January 4th, and the next term didn't begin until the 19th.

But Stiles was the guy's favorite TA, also for reasons unknown, and so he wasn't about to complain to a man who could be an incredible reference in the future. Everything was all about planning ahead. His boyfriend would be so proud.

But Stiles really couldn't give a shit about future career planning or the proud smirk he would receive for it when his feet were frozen to the point where he seemed unable to start his own goddamn car. He felt like a child just learning standard all over again. His numb feet slipped on the pedals, and he fought to apply just the right amount of gas while simultaneously letting off the clutch. It was like a fucking quest for fire in a rainstorm. The fifth stall, and Stiles was snarling and smack the steering wheel hard enough to bruise.

That's when the phone in his pocket, the one that had been vibrating at least once every hour all evening, began to ring.

_Dude Bro calling_

Stiles threw the phone into the backseat, hard enough that it may or may not have broken. Luckily for Stiles, he was too pissed off to care.

He had told Scott for days that he wouldn't be coming home for Christmas. As a TA, he had to be on campus to help with grading, to set up lesson plans, to prep and attend meetings with his advisors. Scott knew how he felt about Christmas. He knew that his Dad worked every year without fail, and honestly, Stiles couldn't understand what the big deal was. Scott's Mom worked nearly every year, and the few times she wasn't she got called in on an emergency anyway.

The snow was coming down harder, narrowing his field of visibility to just a few feet. Fingers wrapping around the steering wheel in a white knuckle grip, Stiles forced a deep breath. And then another. And then another.

Twenty minutes later, he started the car. The engine coughed against the cold, but the tires and four wheel drive held true against the elements, even when he nearly had to pull off the road to dodge some rear-wheel driving asshole who thought his stupid 2014 Mitsubishi could handle 40 mph in a blizzard. If he were in Beacon Hills, he would be wondering who would be meeting the asshole later - his father in handcuffs for reckless driving, or Scott's mom with a stretcher.

The six minute drive to the apartment took another half an hour. Stiles lugged his shoulder bag over one arm with a grunt from the weight of essays and texts, and made it all of three steps before slipping on the snow. He reached a hand out to break his fall before his face did, and was met with road burn, a bleeding hand, and a tear in the knee of his favorite jeans for his troubles. He did not hesitate to beat the snow off his bag, desperate to keep it from sinking in to the work which still had to be done. Stiles was very careful to watch his step for the few feet it took to get inside the building.

For the first time in his entire life, Stiles opened and shut the door with a resounding slam. He was covered in snow from the waist down. His shoes were soaked all the way through. He couldn't feel his toes, and the scrapes on his palm were beginning to drip pink slush from the snow he hadn't bothered to wipe off his skin.

There was a crackling fire going, Tran Siberian Orchestra playing at a pleasant volume, and the warm but dim lighting of a few lamps. Peter had been sitting on the couch, reading something fictional when Stiles got his first look at him. He was on his feet the moment Stiles had opened the door, and in front of him by the time the door smacked shut. He looked very comfortable in a sweater of some neckline Stiles couldn't name, but was cut very low in a way that would emasculate anyone but Peter freaking Hale, with a pair of dark jeans and thick wool knit socks.

Peter did not offer words of kindness. He knew better. He frowned at him, and his eyes were only slightly wide with what Stiles knew to be his way of expressing deep concern. He took his bleeding hand with a tsk, and leeched the pain away without asking.

Then he leaned down to untie Stiles' shoes.

Stiles blinked.

Peter looked up at him through stupidly beautiful eyelashes that were at odds with the thick neck and masculine jaw. It was rude as hell.

"I'm drawing you a bath."

"I was going to take a shower."

"You need to soak. We're taking a bath."

Peter's voice left no room for argument, and Stiles was too tired to argue.

Once his shoes were yanked off and placed under the vent in the kitchen to dry, Peter had Stiles in the bathroom.

He couldn't think straight beyond annoyance, fatigue, and teeth chattering cold. Peter continued to frown at him as he peeled off every wet layer of clothing. His shirt at least had stayed dry, but the rest was damp against his skin. While he waited for the tub to fill, he cleaned Stiles wound with the painless hydrogen peroxide Stiles liked, and spread Neosporin over the cuts before applying a waterproof bandage. Peter didn't like to chances where Stiles' health was concerned.

Apparently, Stiles had missed the 'we' part of the conversation, because he gasped in shock as Peter sank into the massive Jacuzzi beside him. The bathroom was the reason Peter had picked the building, a tub with a dozen jets big enough to seat two. Peter, who put a warm arm across the boy's cold shoulders, and pulled him close enough to knead into the knots that always formed right around this shoulder blades.

Stiles let loose a moan the moment Peter's fingers set to work. Peter grinned, and pressed a chaste kiss to his damp hair.

"Tell me about your day," he said.

The twenty two year old criminal science major took a deep breath from his chest, diaphragm heaving with the effort of it (it moved the water for fucks sake) and proceeded to tell Peter every gritty detail about the past 18 hours. Two kids still didn't have their papers done and gave him hell when Stiles politely informed them of Dr. Jones Absolutely No Later Papers Short of Near Death Experiences policy.

Everyone he graded so far had been absolutely dismal. He felt like a failure as a TA, even though the class was an intro course which really no one gave a fuck about. It was Stiles first TA class, he felt responsible regardless. Parents of the asshole students then called Dr. Jones office while they were in the middle of grading to voice their own complaints, to which the Professor told them very politely that their children were idiots who didn't deserve to be there. To top it all off, he had about a dozen texts from various members of the pack, and at least ten missed calls from Scott which ranged from various levels of concern to simply being pissed off that he was spending the holidays with Peter, as if Stiles work didn't matter or factor in to his life at all.

It was maybe an hour before Stiles was finally out of things to say. The water was getting cold. Peter nudged the lever with one toe to drain some of it away, before sitting up and turning on the taps to refill it with piping hot water instead. Stiles had never taken a bath this long, he had never seen the appeal. But the way Peter's skin seemed to hug his own into place, the man's hands turning ever knot and frustration into pure pleasure, and the simply joy of being able to feel his own toes was making him rethink his stance on bath time.

Peter finally let up as the last knot was loosened, pressing a chaste kiss to Stiles wet skin. It's been years, and still the simple touch along his spine set his pulse up in tempo.

It was only when Stiles stretched with a content yawn, only to wrap himself around Peter like an octopus nuzzling into his chest hair, that he caught it. It was very faint, but definitely there. The subtle but heady notes of Peter's nicest aftershave, stuff so expensive that even the unemployed millionaire only donned out for special occasions. Stiles took one of Peter's hands to kiss it, and none too casually glanced at his nails before settling in again. They had been done as recently as today.

"You had plans for tonight." Stiles turned to look at him. Peter's face was flat, void of a single hint of an answer. They could have been talking about the weather.

"You _are_ my plans for the evening."

Stiles huffed, pushed himself upright and out of Peter's arm. The frown on Peter's face was far too close to a pout. Stiles likes to wonder what the pack would do if they ever saw him like this.

"You mean I am your super fancy and now very cancelled plans for the evening?"

If Stiles had to fail another person today, he might just hit something.

Peter stood up without a word other than "stay here," and proceeded to leave the bathroom without even bothering to towel off. No matter how shitty Stiles felt or how many months had passed, the sight of Peter's naked ass still gleaming wet was almost enough to make him forget about his shitty day and shittier self-esteem entirely.

Almost.

Peter was back not even a minute later. His right hand was closed at his side. Stiles wanted to get a closer look at it, but then Peter was talking again, and his expressions were not to be missed. Half of the time the man communicated through facial features alone rather than actual spoken word.

"Yes, I had plans for the evening. I was going to take you to Vittorio's for dinner, followed by ice skating at a private rink."

Stiles eyebrowed him. His right hand was hanging over the side of the tub out of sight.

"There is no private rink near Berkley."

Peter shrugged.

"There is when offered enough money to tell a small lie about ice melt causing them to shut down for the evening."

Stiles eyebrows went higher.

"You bribed a guy to close down the ice skating rink. On Christmas Eve."

Peter had the good grace to look offended.

"Honestly, Stiles, if you think I can't bribe a simple manager into such an insignificant thing, then I must be losing my touch."

Stiles gestured at him, as if to say 'fair point'.

 It wasn't that Stiles underestimated him, not by any means. But the past two years had been fairly quiet. Scott's established roll as True Alpha and his growing pack deflected a lot of bad guys who would otherwise call Beacon Hills their home. Peter and Stiles had been dating since Stiles' last year of high school, and now for the past three years they shared an apartment in Berkley during the school months. In the summer, Stiles went back to Beacon Hills to stay with his father and get caught up, while Peter stayed in his room at the renovated Hale House. Even when they weren't living together, the two were rarely far apart.

Stiles covered his mouth around a yawn. "I know we've missed dinner, but we can still do the last one if you want." He couldn't even finish the sentence without yawning again.

Peter smiled at his boyfriend's stubborn determination.

"It's not worth watching you fall knee first on the ice from exhaustion, sweetheart. Besides, it's not important."

Stiles eyebrowed at him. This was a first. When Peter made plans, he stuck to them. Even when Stiles huffed and puffed and generally looked annoyed as hell.

"This is."

Peter finally brought the hand he had been trying to hide between them. His fingers held a small black velvet box. He flicked it open with his thumb in one fluid motion. Nestled in black velvet, was a simple silver band, completely unassuming, no markings or finery of any kind. Peter knew better than that.

Stiles jaw looked ready to hit the warm water.

Peter's smile could have given Scott's puppy dog joy a run for its money. Stiles could count the times he had seen the man smile like this on one hand.

"I want to marry you."

Stiles blinked.

"You...you want a _wedding_ wedding? Not like, you know, you and I elope to Vegas and come back hitched and watch Derek's face turn colors. But an _actual_ wedding."

Peter's smile started to turn into as frown.

"Yes, I do. If you'll let me."

Stiles knew the question Peter wasn't asking. He had to be very careful not to laugh. Not with Peter's face looking like Stiles had taken his heart and fed it to a ghoul.

He put the ring on the appropriate finger before he could drop it into the tub.

"Yes, Peter. God, yes," and Stiles did laugh then because Peter smiled like he had been given the keys to the greatest power on earth. Stiles knew he had been. "Yes, you asshole, I want to marry you. I want to have a big stupid wedding where Cora cries and Derek looks like he wants to be sick, and Scott gets dirty looks from Lydia for not asking Allison yet."

Peter kissed him breathless, and if Stiles thought it felt a little bit like relief, he didn't say anything by it.

Stiles and Peter did not go ice skating. They get dressed - Stiles in his flannel pajamas and Peter in his favorite sweats and wife beater, and they curl up on the couch to watch Jim Carrey's How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

A second ring rested patiently on Peter's own hand.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
